Infinite

My mind wanders all the time tnow, even when trying to read.  I end up reading just for the sake of spending time.  I begin feel depressed, that I'm wasting my time.  Nothing gets done; I am neither successful nor acting pursuing anything I want to be successful at (at which I want to be successful).  I sink further into depression, for not being anyone, not doing anything and not being able to motivate towards something. Seconds and minutes and hours pass, simply of endurance, ticking down toward death

Then it hits me. Each second is not getting me closer to death. Yes; death is to come, and from now, that means that as time passes, I get closer to death.  But, we never know when death will come.  It could come ... now.  Or ... now.  Or even ... now.  And yet, it does not.  Death does not yet, has not yet come. Each second does not bring me closer to death.  Each second takes me away from a death that did not come. Time brings me no closer to the end. Rather, time, and the experience I have of living in time, grants me immortality away from death.  I do not need to be depressed because I am wasting my days, speeding off toward ultimate silence.

However, I am depressed that, freed from death, existing in the infinite that runs away from death, I still do not add much to the human condition.